


Timbre

by apricari



Series: Prompt Fills [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom!Hannibal, Canon-Typical Behavior, Frottage, M/M, On the Run, PWP, Possessive Behavior, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Scars, Top!Will, dark!Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:34:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24890887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apricari/pseuds/apricari
Summary: Fill for a prompt sent in by @MDevotion22 on Twitter: “An exploration of Hannibal's scars by Will's hands.”Unbeta’d.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Prompt Fills [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1823560
Comments: 18
Kudos: 121





	Timbre

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChesapeakeStripper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChesapeakeStripper/gifts).



Their last American hideaway is a one story made of plaster, sitting on the edge of an orange grove outside of Modesto. Inside, it’s musty and humid. The carpet fibers feel made of plastic and the walls are white in every room. There’s no furniture but a queen-sized bed, a table, and three chairs. The kitchen appliances are dated but look new, though unsettlingly there’s no dishes or cookware. The garage has a small washer and dryer.

Someone bought this house in 2001 and never moved in, Will muses.

They’re almost too tired to eat, but Hannibal had Will pick up Thai on their way in, with one of his fake credit cards. Hannibal still gets something moderate: satay, peanut sauce on the side, with jasmine rice and a cucumber relish. He arranges the meal on one of the the flimsy paper plates that came with the food, this-here-that-there, as if they were at his dining table with a dozen guests.

He plates Will’s food, too, while Will’s back is turned. Will wrenches open the sliding porch door but leaves the screen closed. It’s dark, abyssal, but the immediate orange trees are lit by the dining area light, dark green leaves making strange shadows and blossoms blazing. The breeze that kicks up occasionally to shake the trees reminds Will of Louisiana, and how the lightest brush of wind would make him sigh happy. The house doesn’t have working air conditioning but Will hears a unit buzzing.

Hannibal drinks water while Will indulges himself with a Coke, despite the slight tingling pain inside his mouth. Hannibal picks up one of the skewers and cleans the chicken from it with his teeth. Will sees them poking out from under his lips with every bite, white-grey in the electric light and pointed. He has a beard now, fringe falling in his face, but he tips his head in consideration as he tastes the food. Will can see him, underneath his silvering hair.

Hannibal takes one break, between the third and fourth skewer, and when he’s done he finishes the rice. Outside, crickets sing. Will has to remember to eat his noodles.

They trade off showers and laundry. The tub doesn’t have a curtain so the spray gets on the linoleum. Will turns the water hot until his skin is pink. Hannibal knows a pilot outside of Santa Cruz who will take them to Yokohama tomorrow. He has a house in the Kanagawa Prefecture, he told Will on the way to California. “The property has a maple forest and a pond on the west side, with carp and catfish. I will have the house stocked before we arrive. I believe we can stay in Japan for some time without fear of getting caught. If you prefer.”

Will believes so, too. Considering what he prefers makes his head buzz. Before this it had all felt like running through an unreal world with Hannibal. He sees himself on a shore, ocean receding.

No stopping a tsunami. He watches the water swirl down the drain.

Hannibal dresses the mattress with newly washed sheets. They lie together, facing each other. Occasionally a breeze rattles the plastic blinds pulled down over the open window. Hannibal is within reach. When Will looks he can see a thin scar on the inside of his forearm. He’d noticed them both when they were in Chicago, watching Hannibal write a note to Jack. Now his attention hooks on them.

As ever, their thoughts line up. He closes his eyes as Hannibal’s thumb traces the scar on his forehead, then the still-red mark on his cheek. “Bedelia du Maurier once told me that knowing I’m scarred excites you.”

“Yes,” Hannibal says. His hand drifts lower, brushing his shoulder, then his sternum. “Some more than others.”

He wants him. They haven’t done this much before. Will takes his hand and easies it away. Before there can be any misunderstanding, he returns the touch, brushing his fingers down the scar on his arm. He moves closer. Still Hannibal murmurs, “Precious boy.”

Fuck. It feels too good to want something for the sake of it, and to have it; he can’t trust it. “Who got you?”

“Don’t you know?” Will shakes his head. “Matthew Brown.”

He takes a breath. The contact takes on a heat, like playing with a flame. Will swallows without meaning to.

“How does that make you feel?”

Will would have laughed if he hadn’t known the question is deeply sincere; wanting. Longing to know. Even after everything they’ve been through it always feels like too much to bear. He kisses him. Hannibal opens up to him instantly.

He kisses his jaw and down to his neck, licking there in the already sticky dark. Hannibal cradles his elbow as Will strokes two fingers down his spine. When he reaches the scar there, he bites his lip at Hannibal’s permitted shiver.

“None of these are mine,” he says, tracing edge of the circle. The skin is raised but the surface smooth in a way recognizes from his own scars.

“I think of them as being yours. Your righteous anger, your forgiveness manifested. I would not have them if didn’t know you.”

Will kisses him again, slow and deep, and he thinks he might lift off the bed. Hannibal wraps his arm around his waist to keep him grounded. Will touches him everywhere he can reach; he wants to know every inch, scarred or perfect. He pushes Hannibal onto his back and arches over him, lining up their cocks, and Hannibal is hot against him. He takes them both in hand, mouthing at the scar on Hannibal’s arm. Hannibal sighs at the first stroke.

He keeps it up, thumb circling and smearing precome. When Hannibal’s breath turns ragged, he stops. Hannibal’s disappointed sound, the sight of him spread on the sheets, makes his dick twitch but he still leaves the bed for the petroleum jelly Hannibal keeps in the first aid kit. When he turns back, Hannibal has rolled onto his stomach, waiting for him. The mark on his back striped with moonlight and shadow from the blinds. Will didn’t even have to ask.

His hand is on Hannibal’s ass before both knees are on the bed, but his eyes are on the scar. Once his fingers are coated, Hannibal takes two of his fingers, easily, and Will takes the chance to be merciless, luxurious, crooking his finger to the sounds Hannibal gives him. What feels like an hour passes, Will adding another finger to hear him pant.

“Will.” Will hums. He recognizes the tone, Hannibal makes it apparent: don’t wait. He thinks about getting Hannibal to beg and fuck if just the idea doesn’t get him hot, but it’s too soon. Maybe in Kanagawa. Maybe he could really make it last—the thought makes him nauseous. He feels disjointed, grotesque; dick hard with bile in his throat.

A hand reaches back and grasps his hair, pulling his head up. His sound of pain is swallowed as Hannibal kisses him, messy and wet. Will makes a low noise and he feels Hannibal’s answering grin.

“Stay with me.”

“I’m here. Sorry.”

For once, he doesn’t pry. Will slicks his cock, cursory, tries not to think of it as a reward for his behavior. When he pushes inside his hands are on the brand. Will kisses Hannibal’s shoulder, stroking the scar as he fucks him, steady and deep.

“Mine.” Hannibal’s skin is hot and wet from his own breath.

“Yes, Will.”

“Yes, yes,” Will echoes through his teeth.

“You didn’t care.” His voice is rough and interrupted as Will thrusts harder, picking up the pace. “About Matthew Brown, his potential. You only thought of me.”

“I knew it wouldn’t happen. I wanted you to look at me. Fuck.”

“The marks of your influence. Reminders of your agency. Would you do it again? If I turned away?”

Will wrenches Hannibal’s arm back, forcing him to brace on the bed with his elbow. It changes the angle of his hips, and Will smiles at the surprised grunt. He twists them both until he his teeth can graze the scar along the tender flesh of his forearm. When he reaches to stroke Hannibal’s cock, he’s already wet with come.

His thrusts turn wild. Beneath him Hannibal is making sounds he can feel but can’t hear over the rush of blood in his ears. Too soon, he thinks when he can again. He’d wanted to come on Hannibal’s back. Next time.

Crickets sing and the blinds rattle. Will still hears the phantom sound of a window unit. He cleans up and they settle, facing each other again. The scar on Hannibal’s cheek is minute compared to the his others. Will touches it with the tips of his fingers. He thinks about what Hannibal had said, about these scars belonging to him, about Matthew Brown. He sees a great wave encroaching on the shore of his mind.

He thinks of his own scars. He had never considered placement. He wonders what that would be like, on the edge of imagining. When he looks at Hannibal, he’s looking back.

Hannibal cups his face with a hot hand. His thumb is so close to his eye. “My Will,” he says, and it’s afterglow hazy. Will sees what’s underneath.

**Author's Note:**

> If you’d like to send a prompt, you can find me on twitter @apricarimy. DMs are open or you can reply to the pinned tweet.


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